


a thousand avenues

by templemarker



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Oblivious Nate Fick, Post-Canon, When Your Lance Corporals Have Better Situational Awareness Than You, communing with dead white guys, not-dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was fucking bored. This rarely happened. </p><p>It was a relief when Colbert--when Brad, of course he was Brad now; he'd been Brad even when Nate was his Lieutenant--came to stand, purposefully relaxed in his doorframe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand avenues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [relevant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relevant/gifts).



> Title from Washington Irving. Thanks to the brilliant women who put up with my mad dashes towards the deadline. 
> 
> Happy holidays!

Nate had six months on desk duty before his separation. All his men had been released from his command within a week of returning to Pendleton; some were separating themselves, but the majority were staying with the Corps for another tour or two. Nate was fighting his feelings of disappointment and inadequacy. Who was he to give up after one bad experience? If he was really a Marine, a hard motherfucker like he had known Marines to be since the first time a recruiter had come to speak at Dartmouth--he was a hard goddamn Marine he wouldn't let some pussy bullshit like _feelings_ and _disappointment_ end his service, would he? 

It was challenging to ride a desk. 

Nate sighed and pulled up another record in the computer. He was currently supervising transfer records for materiel moving from Pendleton to Iraq. He tried to stem his utter boredom at the mundanity of his task by playing dumb games with himself; every time one of the transfer requests used the term "deployed," he took a sip of the shitty coffee Supply maintained in the kitchenette in this wing of the building. He stood and stretched nearly enough to touch the ceiling every time a seagull bleated in audible distance. 

He was fucking bored. This rarely happened. 

It was a relief when Colbert--when Brad, of course he was Brad--came to stand, purposefully relaxed in his doorframe. 

"Sergeant," Nate said in acknowledgement. "What can I do for you?"

Interestingly, Brad seemed to fidget, which on him was the slightest of movements rearranging his aggressive leaning. "I thought you could use some entertainment, Sir. I've come on a provisionary mission."

Nate quirked a smile and leaned back in his chair. "Is that so?" he mused. "Well, Brad, you may very well be seeing me at my worst. I'm beginning to think triplicate filing causes progressive insanity. So please, by all means, do your best."

Brad seemed to wrestle with a thought, utterly still for a long moment, before saying, "Bookstore. There's one near here. I thought you might like to go, visit some old dead white guys. Commune with them."

Nate grinned; it was the first time he felt excited in weeks. "Yeah," he said. "I do love some dead white guys. When were you thinking?"

Brad's face turned determined. "Tonight," he said. "We can grab a beer after; there's a bar not far from the place I'm thinking of."

Nate stood, walking around his desk to slap Brad on the shoulder. "It's a date," he said, and Brad froze under his touch before intently relaxing. 

+

The bookstore was fun. Nate had a good time, pointing out the books he loved to Brad, reading from a few lines of _Catullus_ to Brad's amusing scoffing. He'd picked up a hardback copy of Petrarch's Letters, rolling his eyes at Brad's pointed look. It was a fine copy, inscribed to a young man from his teacher. 

They got beers after, talking comfortably for a couple of hours about Brad's upcoming assignment, what the Lakers were doing (and failing to do), and how many RPG rounds it would take to destroy the Trump name from New York's Trump Tower. 

Nate had fun, more fun than he could remember having in....way too long a time. They parted, Brad going to his truck and Nate to his Volvo, with a friendly hug. Nate was relieved that he'd be able to stay in touch with at least one of his Team Leaders. 

+

Two weeks later, Brad showed up to hover in his doorframe again. 

"What is it this time?" Nate said, jokingly. "You didn't bring me flowers, so I know you're not asking me out."

Brad shoulders climbed towards his ears, but then they relaxed downward. Nate frowned. "Are you okay? Are you feeling any tightness in your upper back? Rudy's pilates class, as ridiculous as it sounds, is pretty amazing for stretching."

Brad looked at him, almost incredulous, for a long moment. "Well, Sir," he said, "I don't typically go for the kind of workouts that Britney Spears favors, but I'll take your advice under consideration."

"As long as it's under consideration," Nate said, slightly mocking. 

"I thought you might be interested in a more...strenuous activity," Brad said. His shoulders incrementally moved up again. "My brother in law has a couple of jet skis he's letting me borrow. What do you think about checking out Imperial Beach this weekend?"

"I'm in," Nate said immediately. "That sounds fucking great. You're full of great ideas, Brad; it's going to hurt to lose you to the Brits."

Brad stared at him, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, and Nate noted the fine white shape of his teeth in the red flesh of his lip. "I--" Brad said, taking a breath. "Great. Good. Can you meet me at my house Saturday morning? I'll have the jet skis attached to my truck."

"I'll be there with bells on," Nate promised. 

+

It was the most fun Nate had had in...way too long to measure for fear of pity. His nose got red from the sun, and Brad was glorious to watch, crashing into the waves petering towards the coastline. Nate admired his physicality, the toned lines of his arms, the loud whoops when they both hit a wave hard. Nate slept for twelve hours, and when he woke, he thought about how much he'd like to go on the waves with Brad again. 

+

A week later, like clockwork, Brad showed up at his office again. Nate had resorted to making a rubber band ball with every spare rubber band he could find. The situation was dire. 

"Brad," he said, perhaps a little more enthusiastic than was really appropriate. "What have you got for me? Ziplining? A lecture at UCSD?"

Brad's smile was a little crooked, and he crossed his arms over his chest when he leaned against the doorframe. "I'm afraid I'm going a little more pedestrian," he said, pulling something out of his pocket and laying it on Nate's desk.

Nate picked them up, tickets, and read the text. "A concert," he mused, consideringly. "Well, I can't fault your taste. Matchbox 20 is pretty good. Are you going to pick me up, or should I get you?"

There was a faint trace of a smile on Brad's lips as he levered himself upright. "Why don't you play the gentleman and pick me up?" he said, his voice a little deep. "I promise I won't make you wait while I do my hair."

"I believe in your sincerity," Nate said, thumbing the tickets. "But I'll really need to see that in execution. Seven?"

"It's a date," Brad said lightly, and a sudden shiver came over Nate. It was a little drafty in his office. 

+

The concert was great, just rock enough to encourage some emphatic body movement and light enough that he could go pull a beer for himself and for Brad and still cut through the crowd. There were so many people that he had to stand closer to Brad, but Brad didn't seem to mind, taking his beer and knocking Nate's shoulder companionably. 

"I had a great time," Nate said, his ears still buzzing from the speakers when he dropped Brad off at the curb.

Brad paused, leaning down from the roof of the Volvo. "I'm glad," he said finally, almost grinding the words through his teeth. "Thanks for coming."

Nate smiled, sunny from the beer and jamming to a good band. "Thanks for inviting me."

He watched Brad amble up to his door and go inside before he re-started the car and left. 

+

It was Thursday, which is when Nate relieved himself from the world of Outlook emails and busied himself with counting and recounting the items in the next shipment out. It was boring, but at least he was able to move around as he was doing it. He hummed "Unwell" to himself as he checked things off his clipboard. 

He was a little startled when he heard "Sir!" pierce the silence of the supply bay but hid his nerves under a slow 180 turn. Stafford and Christeson, still apparently attached at the hip beyond the rear canvas of Nate's truck, stood shifting from foot to foot and rubbing shoulders. 

"Gentlemen," he acknowledged with a smile. "It's great to see you! I thought you were both taking the diving course."

"Yo, we did, and my boy here was the master class," Stafford said, hooking his arm around Christeson's blushing neck. 

"Turns out I'm really good at retrieving shit from the bottom of the pool," he said bashfully.

"Glad to hear it," Nate said. "Sit, sit."

They all settled around the little table in the corner of the bay. Christeson hooked his fingers under his legs, and Stafford sprawled back in his chair. Nate watched them; they already looked so much older than they had before they deployed. He was so gratified they were here to bullshit in front of him, whole and healthy and ready for whatever came next. 

"Yo Lieu, I mean, Cap, or Lieu, or whatever," Stafford stumbled over his words. "You and Colbert have been kicking it, amirite?"

Nate cocked his head, surprised at the question. "Brad and I have done a few things, yes," he said. "I hadn't realized it merited the Camp gossip lines."

Stafford and Christeson shot looks at each other, and Christeson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Um, Sir," he said, his hesitancy tempered by his familiarity with Nate, enough for him to overcome his caution. "You know that Sergeant Colbert is, like, a fan of yours. Like a lot," he emphasized. 

Nate tilted his head, nonplussed. "I share the same regard for Sergeant Colbert as I imagine he does for me," he said. "What's this about?"

Stafford sat forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yo, Captain dawg, the sarge is into shit," he said, looking down at Nate's desk rather than into his eyes. "Like, your shit, Sir. No disrespect, Sir. We just wanted you to know, so shit wasn't screwby, you feel me?"

Nate reclined back into his crappy desk chair, blinking and observing the two men before him. "Do you mean--" he started, but he knew the regs as well as anyone. Stafford and Christeson couldn't ask, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to tell. "Do you mean Sergeant Colbert is...interested. In spending time with me. Outside of, say, Marine camaraderie."

Stafford and Christeson shared a look again, as if they were communicating telepathically. "Yes?" Christeson said timidly. "Like, he wants to spend time with you. Not the Captain. Just, uh, you."

"Screwby," Stafford affirmed cheerfully, ducking his head in acknowledgement. 

"I...see," Nate said. His thumb and index finger bit into the cheap particle board of the table, and he consciously had to unclench his fingers to keep from wrenching a piece free.

+

Not long after, Brad--seemingly unaware of the interventions of his peers--loped into Nate's doorframe again, lounging against it as if he belonged there. 

"Sir," he said, nodding his head. "I wondered--"

"Brad," Nate said, cutting him off. Brad stood, squaring his shoulders as if bracing against something. 

"Brad," he said, more softly. "While I know you might have a natural bias towards something as hippy and liberal as a bed and breakfast, I wondered how you might feel about visiting Joshua Tree."

Brad blinked, clearly surprised. "Joshua Tree doesn't offend me," he said slowly, "though some of its denizens are hardly the caliber of men one might find haunting the nearby dive and titty bars of Oceanside."

Nate smiled, levering himself up from his chair and walking around his desk to stand only a foot or so from Brad. "Excellent," he said. "I expect to see you at 08:00 hours at my place. It's a bit of a drive, and with the holiday weekend I'd expect some traffic no matter how early we leave.

Brad looked stricken, or as stricken as his stoic demeanor could. "Sir," he said. 

Nate stepped forward, closing the few inches between them. "Nate," he corrected. 

Brad looked down at him, holding himself unnaturally still. "Nate," he said finally, and Nate loved the way his name sounded from Brad's lips. 

"It's my turn to show you a good time, Brad," Nate said lowly, pitching his voice so that it only carried between their bodies. 

There was a long beat, only the sharp ticking of the clock in the room, and Brad breathed a shaky breath out. "Nate," he said. "For you, I'll brave the hippie enclave of the high desert."

Nate grinned. "For us, I'll brave you every step of the way."

Brad's answering slow smile was like a thousand questions answered, when Nate only had one.

**Author's Note:**

> To the finest members of the Lance Corporal Underground, alamerysl and Pucking, for thoroughly checking and re-checking the application of tags.


End file.
